


Interruption

by Splinter



Category: Mad Max Series (Movies)
Genre: Angst and Fluff and Smut, Cunnilingus, Established Relationship, F/M, Furiosa is the most eaten out character in fandom history, Porn with Feelings, Post-Movie(s)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-25
Updated: 2016-08-25
Packaged: 2018-08-11 01:27:40
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,750
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7870222
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Splinter/pseuds/Splinter
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Furiosa is working under the rig. Max interrupts.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Interruption

**Author's Note:**

> This is Furiosa's point of view for something mentioned in [Five days, forty-three nights](http://archiveofourown.org/works/7852261), but they're both standalone fics.

Furiosa is at work on the rig, searching the undercarriage for signs of damage. The next trade run is in two days. The day after that, all going well, Max will leave to scout around Bartertown. It’s been a long while since he’s left on such an extended trip. They’re both feeling it.

Furiosa is double-checking everything, trying to coax Max into taking more supplies. He wants physical closeness: his thigh against hers at dinner, a rush to fuck as soon as they get back to her room. They’re both hungry for touch, though she wonders how much harder this will make it once he goes. It only makes her want to touch him more, while he’s here, while she can. But there’s a lot to do, so she grits her teeth and tries to concentrate.

There’s a knock on the sole of her boot, someone gently kicking for attention. It’s a standard greeting in the noisy workshop, though in her case they usually call for her first. Since there was no cry of “Boss!”, she’s not surprised to see Max when she rolls out on her crawler. 

He’s brought a message from Capable, and crouches down to talk. One of the war girls has recovered from injury, earlier than expected. Is there room for her on the trade run crew? It would be good to get her back in action soon, if there’s space. They’ll talk about it at dinner. Furiosa nods: it’s a good idea, shouldn’t be a problem. She’s about to roll back under when she catches a look on Max’s face, the way he’s watching her.

“What?” she asks, a little abruptly. He shrugs, smiling. Furiosa doesn’t quite know what to do with that, so she smiles back, awkward, and slides herself under the rig.

Half an hour later, there’s another tap on her boot.

“What?”

“Lug. Having trouble with the fan belt on the caddy. Not a hurry, but. Wants you to have a look.” He’s crouched down again, idly stroking a finger over one of the buckles at her waist.

“And is there any reason Lug couldn’t tell me that himself?” He gives her a look of limpid blue innocence. 

“Was coming over.” He nods to the interceptor, parked alongside the rig. He’s checking it over before leaving, testing it for faults and getting it ready for the journey. They’ve both been bringing supplies down so that he can pack.

“Were you, now,” Furiosa says, looking down at his hand. His finger has reached the edge of her bodice; she can feel him through the soft fabric of her shirt, still stroking. The innocent look is definitely slipping. Trying and failing to hide her smile, Furiosa gets up and goes to see about the fan belt. She knows Max is watching her go; maybe her hips swing a little as she walks.

It doesn’t take long to find a solution for Lug’s fan belt. When she comes back, Max is sorting through his pack, has found a bundle of small, round fruits. They’re more of the Dag’s cherished green citruses, which survive desert travel better than any other fruit they’ve found. He’d taken one full ration already; these are extras. Max looks up at her.

“Dag had more than she thought,” Furiosa says, airily. In fact, she’d coaxed and wheedled to get so many more, popped them into Max’s pack when he wasn’t looking. She knows he’s not fooled. She licks her lips, self-conscious, and sees his eyes follow the movement. Knowing he’ll be gone in three days makes everything heightened, makes her very aware of his reactions. 

But she has work to do, and she can’t spend the morning watching Max. Getting back onto her crawler, she rolls right under the rig, turning to lie lengthways so she can work on the front axle. Her feet aren’t sticking out where he can prod them. She moves her lamp into position, makes herself focus.

She gets a good, uninterrupted run. She’s moved onto the brake lines when she hears movement, and finds Max crawling in beside her. He’s brought her a cup of water, which is welcome: she’s been working hard, has got hot and sweaty. She half-sits – the rig has high ground clearance, so there’s just about room – to drink it.

“Were you going to ask me something?” Max shakes his head. His air of mischief has gone: he’s just looking at her, here in the shadow of the rig. He takes her empty cup, then leans in to kiss her. The angle’s odd, she’s raised off the floor on her crawler, while he has edged in to lie on his side. She knows that’s not the only reason he’s holding her tighter.

When they break away, she rests her forehead on his. 

“I’m going to miss you,” she says, in a small voice. She hasn’t said that to him before, for all the times he’s come and gone. She still isn’t saying the other things. Take care. Come back safely. Come back. 

He did volunteer. It’s a sensible solution. They need to know what’s going on out in the wasteland, if threats are gathering, though it will mean his longest scouting trip in a while, a long while. 

Max presses closer, kisses her again. She can feel her body waking up, because right now she only has to look at him to want him. His hand still in her hair, he kisses her jaw, her throat, both of them breathing faster. She wriggles closer, bracing her metal hand against the underside of the rig to keep her balance. The bustle of the garage feels distant in this small, shadowy space between the wheels.

After several kisses, he pulls back. She makes a little disappointed sound, even though she knows they both have work to do. He kisses her again, but moves away, sliding down towards the centre of the rig, back towards the light and noise of the machine shop. 

Furiosa lies back, stares up at the axle without really seeing it. She’s nearly finished, but it’s hard to concentrate on that just now. 

She feels another tap on her boot. Max is crouched between her feet. As she stares at him, he nudges her legs apart, taking hold of her thighs to pull her towards him. The crawler brings her down to him in an effortless glide. A pulse of heat goes through her, because she wouldn’t let anyone else move her like that, take control of her like that. She’s floating, with his hands on her.

Max is sprawled on the floor between her legs, looking up at her. The crawler is only the length of her torso, her legs dangling to the floor. She’s suddenly aware that it raises her hips right into his eyeline.

He dips his head between her thighs, pressing his face to her crotch. He’s breathing deep and slow, as if he can smell her through the leather. Perhaps he can; she’s already wet, just from his kisses and a few touches.

After several breaths, he moves up to undo her belt, easing the waistband out from under her bodice. He kisses her belly as he undoes her fastenings, his hands sure, his mouth open and wet. He’s still kissing and nibbling as he tugs her leathers and underwear down to her knees, pushes her legs wider. She tries not to moan out loud.

Max is nosing down the crease of her thigh, rubbing his cheek against her. He’s been shaving carefully and often lately, his jaw smooth against her skin. He kisses her thigh, moves up to nuzzle at her crotch. One large, warm hand strokes over her hip, slides in to part her lips. He presses a careful kiss on her, then licks a long stroke from her cunt to her clit. 

When she shivers, she can feel as well as hear the satisfied noise he makes. She loves how greedy he is about giving her pleasure, as if she’s the one indulging him when he gets his mouth on her. He laps and licks at her, works back up to suck on her clit.

It’s hardly first time they’ve fucked in the garages. Sometimes, particularly if he’s been away, they’ve been in too much of a rush to make it upstairs. Sometimes they’ve teased each other, enjoyed the risk of being caught. This isn’t that. He’s not hurried, and despite the morning’s back and forth, he’s not teasing. He’s eating her out as if he craves her, as if he doesn’t want to let her go. 

She wonders if he’s memorising her for the road, her touch and taste and smell. He wouldn’t be the only one: she’s clinging to the feel of his mouth, the way he’s lapping and sucking and losing himself in her. Another wash of heat goes through her: at what he’s doing, how he needs her, how she needs him.

The crawler rocks as he licks into her. She braces her metal hand against the undercarriage again, hoping the machine shop noise will cover the way she’s breathing hard, the little whimpers she can’t quite swallow. If it doesn’t, she doesn’t care. Max is leaving, will be gone in three days. Right now, he has his mouth and his hands on her, taking her apart.

She does moan, loud, when she comes, her body clenching and shuddering. Once she’s done, he pulls away and kisses her thighs again, pushing his face against her, his hands firm on her hips. It’s sending little shivers up and down her, her skin prickling where he touches her. When he looks up at her, his eyes are dark. He kisses her belly once more, then moves back in to lick her again. 

Furiosa reaches her flesh hand down to find his, holding tight as he works her steadily through a second orgasm. She’s quieter this time, just gasping, with one desperate little groan as she finishes. Her legs are trembling. Max rests his cheek on her thigh, keeps hold of her hand. 

When he lets go, it’s to tug her leathers back up, smoothing them over her hips, making sure they sit right. He kisses the triangle of bare skin at her open fly, before doing up her fastenings. Once she’s tucked away, he rests his head between her legs, as if he has no plans to move. She strokes his hair. The noise of the garage goes on around them.

**Author's Note:**

> I'm at [lurkinghistoric](http://lurkinghistoric.tumblr.com/) on Tumblr.


End file.
